


Bethesda's Bellamy Best, Bellamy Crawling Out Through the Fallout

by Untrie



Series: Bethesda's Bellamy Best [1]
Category: Fallout 4, The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy Blake & Nathan Miller Friendship, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Healing, Mental Breakdown, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Redemption, Sad Bellamy, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-07-10 11:03:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6981715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Untrie/pseuds/Untrie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This episode begins two years after the events of The 100 (as of the end of season 3) and ends at the start of the Great War in Fallout 4.</p><p>Bellamy Blake needs help with his mental illnesses, but he keeps refusing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cognitive Dissonance

EPISODE I

Cognitive Dissonance

\-- -- --

I say I'll go through fire  
And I'll go through fire  
As he wants it, so it will be  
Crazy he calls me  
Sure, I'm crazy

Crazy in love, I say

\--Billie Holiday, “Crazy He Calls Me”

\-- -- --

            A pale dawn light trickled in through the window, carrying with it the impression of dew-wet grass and a chilly spring morning. The citizens of Arkadia had been here for two years—two turbulent, deadly years. Finally, a peaceful life seemed possible for the first time since the Ark’s life-support system had died, throwing 99 delinquent children and one Bellamy Blake down to the Earth.

            Sunlight pulled him out of his sleep. Bellamy’s muscles tensed, bracing against the day, against the constant needs of the children who elected him their surrogate dad. He began molding composure into his face, hoping that no one would notice his fears, especially Clarke. She always complicated every plan with her form of morality, despite the fact that they always ended up murdering everyone with near abandon.

            Murder. He closed his eyes against the pale light, already exhausted from the guilt. When he did dream, they were nightmares filled with the faces of his victims. Three hundred men and women removed the Ark’s population. Three hundred men, women and children irradiated in Mount Weather. Three hundred grounders immolated during the battle for the drop ship. Three hundred of Indra’s people he murdered. Lincoln. Charlotte. Gina. His mother.

            His bathroom door opened, ripping him from his thoughts. Clarke stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame. She was brushing her teeth, white toothpaste foam dribbling down her chin. “Good morning!” She managed to get out through a toothbrush and a smile.

            He pulled a smile together. Bellamy remembered again—Clarke and he were together. They didn’t know what to call it. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend—they had gone through too much, and in the brooding dark of night he would remember they had killed too many. They weren’t married—it wasn’t time yet. But for the first time in his life someone made him feel safe, and for the first time in his life someone had forgiven him.

            Bellamy didn’t know what Clarke thought of him. He knew that she was still in love with Lexa. She would often mutter her name as she slept, but from the way she held him while they slept, Bellamy knew she felt a lot for him.

            “’Morning to you, too.”

            “You okay?” She asked, going back into the bathroom to spit out her toothpaste.

            “Yeah,” Bellamy forced himself to smile more. “I’m great.”

            He wasn’t, not for the past month at least. Something was wrong, and he was realizing more and more that his composed veneer was more than just an image he had been trying to project. That veneer was the only thing holding the rest of him in. And it was breaking. Despite Clarke finally being with him, despite Octavia finally being safe and free, nothing could bring him out of his own darkness for more than a few hours.

            Clarke raised an eyebrow. “First off, you’re not, Bell.”

            He put on a playful snarl—veneers.

            “Yeah,” she continued. “Secondly, whatever it is, you can get help. My mom still has some of those meds left over from Mount Weather, and I’m sure…”  
            “I’m not taking meds.” The words were sharp—veneers crack.

            “Okay,” Clarke walked over to the dresser. “But I think you should talk to someone if you won’t talk to me about it.”

            “Yeah-okay.”

            She dressed silently.

            “I love you.” Bellamy said, pouting.

            “I know, Bell.” Clarke turned around and smiled. It was slight, sympathetic, beautiful. “And I know you. You’d know if something wasn’t right.”

            She crawled into bed and sidled up next to him. Bellamy realized he wasn’t wearing anything. Even after a few months of dating, he still got embarrassed. He had never done that with any other woman.

            “Get dressed. We’re eating breakfast with Nathan and Bryan in a few minutes. Busy day ahead of us.” She planted a kiss on his cheek.

\-- -- --

            Clarke and Bryan had gone off to secure a place to sit in the mess. It was unusually packed, even for Coalition Day. This was the day Arkadia joined the Grounders as the Thirteenth Clan, Skaikru.

            Bellamy brushed his shirt down. He was wearing a pristine, white, cotton t-shirt. It was quite possibly the most comfortable shirt he’d ever worn. Bryan and Miller had given it to him for his birthday. They didn’t know that he knew where it had come from. He had seen someone wear something similar in Mount Weather. It bothered him, but so much did nowadays.

            “How are you?” Miller asked—the second or third time he or Bryan had asked him. He was in uniform; Bellamy supposed that he had drawn the short straw. Coalition Day duty probably wasn’t great.

            “I’m fine.” Bellamy said almost absentmindedly. It was a routine answer, and one that he supposed wasn’t wrong.

            “That’s good.”

            “Yup.” Bellamy watched as Clarke checked every table. She seemed to know everyone in Arkadia. Her smile lit up the room. “Clarke is so happy.”

            “What?”

            “Nothing. Just, I’m glad she’s happy. She’s earned it.”

            “Yeah.” Miller smiled. “You both have. You guys really saved our lives.”

            “No, Miller.” Bellamy said. He could feel the veneer breaking. “No, she did. I was just kind of there, messing up.”

            “Bellamy, you don’t actually believe that, do you?” Miller put his hand on Bellamy’s shoulder. “You gotta know that we’re in your debt. Bellamy, you saved us.”

            “Yeah.” He grunted. He shouldn’t have said that. Why was it getting so hard?

            “Listen, I love you. You have to know that.” Miller squeezed his shoulder. “If you ever need to talk, I’m here.”

            Bellamy met Miller’s gaze. “No, Nathan. I don’t think you’d actually be able to be there. I’m sorry. I just—I don’t know if you’d be able to understand.”

            “Bell,” Miller pulled Bellamy closer. “I’ve killed people too. If that’s what this is about, I can help. Some of the other delinquents and I—we get together every few days. It helps.”

            Bellamy remained silent. He felt like he was swimming through his own mind, swimming and drowning. They knew. All of them knew. “I have to go to the bathroom.”

            He pulled away and walked to the bathroom. He thought he was walking briskly, but as he moved away from the mess hall, he realized he was gaining speed. By the time he was in the hallway, he was sprinting. He pushed his way into a bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He locked it.

            His head shook from side to side. He gripped the sink until his fingertips turned a pale white. Tears began to fill his eyes, and before long he realized that he was screaming. It was a howl, a single, long shriek. Bellamy heard knocking on the door. It was frantic, pounding.

            He left himself.

            He couldn’t see out from himself, but only from behind. Confusion. Anger. Rage. Guilt. Clarke’s voice drifted through the door in between pounding knocks. Blood filled his ears.

            He felt dragged through space. Something pulled his gaze up. His face was crimson, his eyes already bloodshot. The scream hadn’t stopped—or maybe it had. He felt like a monster, roaring and voiceless.

            He began to shake all over, and everything hurt. Everything—disorganized—pain. He raised his fist. He smashed his fist into the mirror.

            The veneer shattered—he drifted away.

\-- -- --

            Bellamy cleared away the fog from the mirror. He had just finished shaving, and he realized that he hadn’t been paying attention. Something had pulled him back to Alaska. Fighting the Chinese in the Aleutians had been brutal. “War never changes…”

            “You’re gonna knock ‘em dead at the veteran’s hall tonight, hon,” Nora said.

            This was wrong. Bellamy knew this was wrong. This wasn’t the right mirror, and this wasn’t the right bathroom.

            “I’m sorry, what?”

            “That’s why I married you.” She laughed. “You were always so charming.”

            “Nora?” Bellamy asked.

            “Bellamy?” She responded, chuckling. “I’m just so happy you’re back home. Shaun needed you.”

            He knew Nora. She was his wife. She had a law degree. He knew Shaun. He was their baby boy. They had conceived him in the park, which seemed like something he just wouldn’t do. Maybe with Clarke, but probably only with her.

            Where was Clarke? Fear struck him. Where was Octavia?

            Nora, his wife yet not _his_ , left to the other room. Codsworth was out there. Why did he know this? Where was he? It looked like the American 1950s.

            Bellamy followed this woman who was somehow simultaneously a woman he loved and someone he had never met before. Codsworth—Codsworth a flying robot—told him his coffee was at just the right temperature while he meandered through the kitchen.

            “Sugarbombs?” He turned the package over. “One hundred percent your daily value of sugar? What the…”

            There was a knock at the door. Nora asked him to answer it. Bellamy felt like he was drifting through a dream. He couldn’t get over how everything looked like some idealized version of the American 50s.

            “Good morning! Vault Tec calling.” A middle-aged man in a yellow trench coat jovially said.

            “Vault Tec?” Bellamy asked. He knew—the Bellamy of this world knew—but the Bellamy of Arkadia had no idea.

            “Why, we’re about you, sir, and helping secure your future. You see, Vault Tec is the foremost builder of state-of-the-art underground fallout shelters. Vaults, if you will—luxury accommodations where you can wait out the horrors of nuclear devastation.”

            Nuclear devastation? Everything looked like the American 1950s, except there were robots. Bellamy felt lost. What was the year? Horrified, he realized he knew the answer:  2077. The bombs dropped in 2052. The world should’ve been covered in nuclear fallout already! This was a dream. It had to be.

            Then, as he stared slack-jawed at the Vault Tec representative in front of him, terror struck him. There were two options. The first was that he had gone insane, something that everyone, including Bellamy, had been fearing for months. The second was worse:  what if somehow he were actually now part of this new Bellamy, this not-him. In either case, he wondered if he would ever see Clarke or Octavia again.

            Bellamy re-focused on the man standing in front of the not-him Bellamy’s door. The representative hadn’t stopped talking. “You have no idea how long I’ve been trying to reach you. This is matter of the upmost urgency.”

            “What’s so urgent?” Bellamy dreaded the answer.

            “Why nothing less than your entire future,” the representative became anxious. This did not bode well. “If you haven’t noticed, sir, this entire country has gone to heck in a handbasket, if you’ll excuse my language. The big ka-boom. It’s inevitable, I’m afraid, and coming sooner than you might think, if you catch my meaning. Now I know you’re a busy man. I don’t want to take up much of your time—time being a, ahem, precious commodity. I’m here to tell you that, thanks to your family’s service to our country, you’ve been pre-selected for the local vault! Vault 111! I, uh, I just have some paperwork for you to fill out.”

            Bellamy took the clipboard. S. P. E. C. I. A. L. What the hell did that mean? It was a numerical survey. He had to describe himself:  his strength, his perception, his endurance, his charisma, his intelligence, his agility and his luck. How do you describe luck? He tried to answer as honestly as possible, pausing only on the last category. Eventually, he left it at one.

            “Thank you, sir! Thank you,” the representative began to back away from the door. “Vault Tec appreciates your—“

            Bellamy let the door close. He turned to face the not-him Bellamy’s wife. How could he feel such love and admiration for her, yet nothing at the same time?

            “A little paperwork is worth the peace of mind,” Nora said without looking back. She was busy watching an old-timey, black-and-white newscast. The anchorman was talking about some baseball game.

            A baby started wailing from the backroom. “Mister Bellamy!” Codsworth said as he floated into the room. “I believe Shaun needs some of that paternal attention.”

            Bellamy drifted into the boy’s bedroom. Shaun lay in the crib. He definitely looked like Bellamy and Nora. The baby had Bellamy’s nose and Nora’s eyes. Something switched on. The Bellamy he was didn’t belong in this world, but he was here, and so was Shaun. Immense love welled up within him—he needed to protect Shaun. The not-him within him began to make sense, coalescing around Shaun. His—their child, his responsibility.

            “Go ahead, Bell,” Nora said from behind him. “Spin the mobile. He loves that.”

            And so Bellamy did. Nora continued speaking, but Bellamy paid no attention. She wasn’t Clarke, not like this baby boy seemed for all the world to be Octavia—or at least remind him of Octavia.

            “Sir! Ma’am!” Codsworth called out from the other room, panicked. Bellamy realized that Codsworth could probably feel emotions, and distrust grew immediately. His last encounter with an AI hadn’t gone well. “I think you’ll want to see this.”

            Bellamy heard the sirens begin to wail outside. He ran to the living room. _No,_ he thought. _No, this can’t be how this goes._

            “Reports of atomic detonations in the cities of Washington D. C., Philadelphia and New York—we’re getting reports of blinding flashes of light followed by—oh my god.” The anchorman began to weep, and then the screen went fuzzy.

            Please Stand By.

            “We gotta go!” Bellamy shouted. “Nora, grab Oct—Grab Shaun. Let’s go!”

            They ran outside. The crowds were running down the street of this idyllic neighborhood. Helicopters like he had never seen before flew overhead. Bellamy wanted to sprint to the Vault, if it truly was his only salvation. “Nora, keep up!”

            When they got to the gate, he was shocked to see a man clad in robotic armor. Power armor, the not-him Bellamy told him. “We’re on the list.” He screamed. “Let us in, dammit!”

            “One adult male, one adult female, one infant male—checks out. Go on through.”

            He caught a glimpse of the Vault Tec representative running away with angry tears streaming down his face.

            He grabbed Nora by the arm, not caring if he hurt her. Shaun was in danger. The not-him Bellamy’s responsibility was in danger. They stopped on a gear-shaped elevator.

            “Come-on-come-on-come-on!” He yelled, staccato, not knowing who to direct the words to. Nora grabbed his attention.

            “Bell, I need you.” She said, tears streaming down her face, and for a second, she resembled Clarke.

            “I love you,” he said, omitting Clarke’s name out of kindness to the not-him Bellamy’s wife. The last word escaped his mouth, and a bright, white flash punctuated his sentence. The sky turned red, and he lowered his hand. Something told him the city down the hill was Boston. He was in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts.

            He was caught in the macabre beauty of the mushroom cloud. It must’ve gone up for miles, and all around it, fire ripped the world to shreds. In a sense, he felt as though someone had shown him pain—his pain. Then he saw the shockwave. It cascaded over the hills and valleys at an alarming speed. “The speed of sound,” he remembered from the history books he read as a kid. “The heat generated by the blast produces a shockwave that travels at the speed of sound, dousing any fires that sprung up ahead of it, but also vaporizing any matter in its wake.”

            The others on the elevator began to scream, but Bellamy didn’t. He stared at Shaun. The baby was crying. Bellamy felt his eyes water. He hoped he wouldn’t see the baby ripped to shreds, but, and a part of him hated his, he hoped the elevator wouldn’t descend. It would be too easy and sweet.

            The floor jarred, and they all lowered into the ground just in time for the deadly shock wave to pass over them. Bellamy began to weep—really weep—for the first time in years as the vacuum created by the shock wave above pulled pain into his eyes and ears.

            _Why couldn’t they just have waited a second longer?_

\-- -- --


	2. Lights off, lights on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy, Nora and Shaun enter Vault 111 together, but Shaun and Bellamy are the only ones to leave. It's now time for Bellamy to find Shaun, this world's Octavia.
> 
> His son, his responsibility.

EPISODE II

Lights Off, Lights On

\-- -- --

Why does the sun going on shining?

Why does the sea rush to shore?

Don’t they know it’s the end of the world,

‘Cause you don’t love me anymore?

\--Skeeter Davis, “The End of the World”

\-- -- --

            Vault 111 was florescent lighting and stainless steel, plastic and aluminum. Despite the disaster going on 100 feet above, Bellamy found himself mulling over the aesthetic. It was very much like the Ark. The employees down there were all smiling and welcoming, as if customer service was paramount for the Vault Tec business model. They behaved like the new inhabitants of Vault 111 were guests in some charming, post-apocalyptic B&B. Although, Bellamy supposed, the apocalypse was still ongoing right upstairs.

            “Take your vault suit,” said a charming black woman. Bellamy did without thought. Nothing seemed real. He wondered if this was how the grounders back home felt when the bombs fell. Home. He found himself wondering how long this was going to be his home. At least—he told himself—at least the worst case scenario was he would get to see Shaun grow up.

            One of the Vault customer service reps—he couldn’t call them anything else—gently told him to wear the Vault suit. It was blue and gold with three, black 1’s on the back. Bellamy found the look offensively bad. He had standards back home; he’d sure as hell have standards here.

            A doctor-looking figure directed him to a decontamination pod. Bellamy wondered why he needed decontaminating. Gamma rays, probably, but that was unlikely to be washed out of his skin. Anxiety gripped him when he remembered Mount Weather. He hoped this would be less painful

            A family huddled next to a window. A woman—he assumed the wife and mother of the group—was having a mild panic attack. Bellamy pitied her, but when he realized that he couldn’t judge, he felt deep shame. He used to be strong. He needed to put away the episode he had in the bathroom in Arkadia. He tried to focus on the corridor he and Nora were walking down.

Another Vault Tec customer service rep was calming down that woman. They continued down the hallway. Bellamy realized that the doctor ahead of them was touting how luxurious this Vault was. “This is one of our most advanced facilities—not that our others are bad.”

Why on earth did he think that Bellamy and Nora could begin to care?

“Bell,” she asked. He realized she had been calling his name for a while. “Bell, it’s really done isn’t it. All of it—done. Oh my god.”

He turned to face her, pulling her into his arms. “Shaun will be safe. We’ll be safe. That’s what matters.”

They ended up in a room lined with tall, glass pods. Immediately Bellamy became unnerved. He knew something was wrong, yet he seemed to be the only one that knew. The pods had locks. Why would a decontamination pod have a lock? His chest tightened, and phantom touches of Mount Weather brushed against his skin. The scraping jets of water pummeling his pores, clawing their way in and scooping any radiation out. This was a lie, just like the other delinquents said Mount Weather was a lie. These weren’t decontamination pods.

Nora walked up to the doctor and was directed into a pod. She took Shaun with her.

“Nora, don’t!” Bellamy shouted. “That’s not a decontamination pod!”

“Bell, we have to make sure there’s no radiation,” she said, pulling Shaun close to her face. “Don’t we, little buddy?”

“Please, Nora! This isn’t right. I’ve been through something like this before—“ A Vault Tec customer service rep came from behind and pulled Bellamy into a chokehold.

“Bell!” Nora shouted, and she stepped forward.

“No need to worry, ma’am.” The man holding Bellamy said without any hint of exertion, despite Bellamy’s desperate attempts to break free. How could this man be stronger? Bellamy—either world’s Bellamy—was immensely powerful. His vision began to brown out, and he relaxed his muscles. “See,” the man said calmly, his breath causing the hairs on the back of Bellamy’s neck to come to attention. “Poor Mister Blake here was just having a mild flashback. We see it all the time with military personnel.”

“Oh my,” Nora said. “Bell’s never had one of those before, though.”

“Atomic annihilation can be very triggering,” the doctor assured her. “We’d expect to see that in anyone really, but especially someone with Mister Blake’s service record. Put him in the pod.”

“Please,” Bellamy’s voice was faint. He nearly blacked out.

They rested his head against a pleather cushion. He was standing up. It reminded him of a small dropship.

“I love you, Bell.” Nora said, seeming more and more like Clarke. She smiled reassuringly.

“I love you, too,” Bellamy said, trying to project his voice to her. He was worried about what would happen next. A few minutes ago, he was fine with being obliterated by an atomic shockwave, but now he feared for his life and Shaun’s. Scared, almost like a private prayer, “I love you, Clarke. I love you, Octavia.”

The pod’s door closed, and a short countdown began. In the moment before the voice said zero, Bellamy let out a whisper. “I need you.”

Everything became cold—he became cold—inside himself he felt ice—full stop.

\-- -- --

            The atmosphere in his tube thawed, and for the first time in a lifetime Bellamy blinked. Confusion wracked his brains, pressing his perception of time and reality into mush. What the hell happened?

            Two people stood in front of Nora’s pod. One of them was wearing a white hazmat suit. Memories of Mount Weather snuck up behind him. He wanted to pound on the window, but so very desperately, he didn’t want to attract the attention of the monster in white.

            The other person was a man. He was tall. He wore a leather outfit, and for all the world he looked like a grounder if grounders laundered their clothes. A powerful-looking pistol hung in a holster off his waist.

            The monster in white opened Nora’s pod. Shaun came to life, his sharp wails coming in dully through the glass. Nora seemed confused.

            “We just need the boy,” the man in leather said. Bellamy felt blood rush into his head and face.

            “What?” Nora asked as the monster in white stepped up into the pod and motioned for Shaun. “No, I’m not giving you Shaun. What’s going on?”

            Bellamy slammed his fist against the glass. Unlike the mirror in Arkadia, he couldn’t even put a scratch on the pane in front of him. “Shaun!” He screamed, almost shrilly.

            “Bell!” She looked at him. He could see panic in her eyes. The monster in white grabbed Shaun and began to tug him away. Nora fought back, pulling hard on her baby boy until the child started screaming in pained earnest.

            He shot her. The man in leather shot her.

            Bellamy stopped screaming. The world stopped. Everything stopped.

            The monster in white carried Shaun to the controls for Nora’s pod. The monster in white closed the door to her pod. Nora refroze.

            Bellamy’s eyes tracked Shaun ceaselessly, scared to pull away from his baby boy.

            The man in leather walked to Bellamy’s pod. “We’ll keep this one alive—just in case.”

            When the monster in white pulled Shaun out of view, Bellamy howled in pain. His heart broke.

            And then he froze again—for a time.

\-- -- --

            “Malfunction in cryo-tube B.”

            Bellamy awoke. He was screaming, but his voice had been frozen for too long. Nothing came out, so he pounded on the glass. The pane jarred forward and began to open slowly.

            He fell out and began crawling over to Nora’s tube. He stumbled to his feet, pulling himself up to the control panel. He slammed his fist against the open button then moved to face her tube.

            “Come-on-come-on-come-on!” He roared. The tube took it’s time. “Come on!” Finally the tube opened. Nora was leaning against the side—her body leaned. Nora was gone. Bellamy reached outward to grab her hand. He pulled her ring off. It was so small compared to his own plain, gold band. “I’ll find who did this. I’ll find Shaun.”

            He backed away from the woman who, in this world, was his wife. Find Shaun. Get back to Octavia and Clarke. His list was growing. He gently pressed the button, and, silently, he watched his wife be encased. It was almost a burial. It would have to do.

            The exit—find the exit, he told himself. Not taking his eyes off of Nora, he backed down the corridor.

            He opened the door to find a deserted hallway. “Where did everyone go?” More importantly, he was wondering if he would need to defend himself. So he began to wander the hallways, trying to find an exit. The main way out was sealed. He didn’t know why.

            Down a hallway, he found a window looking into what had to be a generator room. There was something crawling on the glass on the other side. He crept up, and the thing flew off. “Giant roaches,” he said with no lack of disgust. A black baton lay on the table. “This’ll have to do.”

            Opening doors scared him now. He had no idea what ways this strange world had gotten stranger while he slept. The door ahead of him whooshed open, revealing an expansive office. There was a weapons cache on the far wall, but Bellamy couldn’t access it. A skeleton sat at the computer terminal. These computers were ancient! They looked like PCs from the late 1970s in his world.

            “RobCo,” he laughed. “What fresh hell—?”

            As he read, he grew more and more horrified. Vault 111 wasn’t even meant to be a sanctuary. Vault Tec apparently planned all of this. This was all some sort of sick science experiment. He shot a glance down the hallway he had just come from. “Unbelievable.” This wasn’t the worst thing he’d ever seen anyone do, but it was close. What were they even going to do with cryotechnology after the radiation dropped to habitable levels?

            He found the command to open the doors. Looking down to the skeleton, he saw a pistol wrapped in bones. “Nice.” It felt good in his hand. Solid. A good deal more powerful than any baton. He’d have to conserve bullets, though. If any amount of time had passed, there likely weren’t many rounds left on the surface.

            He stepped into the hallway that led him away from this hell. Five giant roaches started to attack him. Why were they attacking? Normal roaches run away. He stomped on the first one, but a second bit him. Bellamy let out a short grunt. That hurt—a lot. The skin felt wrong too. It burned. Immediately he realized what that burning sensation was—radiation. Who knows how many rads just entered his system.

            “Oh float me.” He pulled out the pistol and began to unload bullets into the dark hallway. One shot, one kill. He felt ruthless and even a little pathetic. They were just bugs, but he halfway suspected they could’ve killed him. He reloaded and ran to the exit.

            Finally he reached the antechamber for the exit. Skeletons were strewn about, and gooseflesh rippled all along his flesh. He smelled it too. For the first time, he smelled the tomb that engulfed him. It crawled down into his sinuses, making him gag on dust and long-done decay.

            A Pip-Boy wrapped its way around a skeleton’s wrist. Bellamy assumed it was the not-him that recognized the contraption for what it was, and god it was heavy. He pulled it off the skeleton and wrapped it around his own wrist. It booted up, revealing a series of simplistic menus. He worried he would have to wear this on his wrist, finding it archaic and tacky. The not-him told Bellamy to plug the Pip-Boy into the control panel, and so he did.

            The gate opened. A machine glided forward and unlocked the giant, metal door that sealed him in with the death cast around him. Air rushed in, blowing his already castabout hair into a mess. All too excited, he almost sprinted to the elevator.

            “Enjoy your return to the surface,” a robotic voice intoned. “Thank you for choosing Vault Tec.”

            “Go float yourself,” Bellamy muttered.

\-- -- --

            For a good few moments, the sun blinded him. Its light burned his skin, something he hadn’t really experienced too much of in his previous life. This burn was immediate, tingly. The air was acrid and still. He heard the caw of a raven flying over him. Every tree was scarred and dead. Somehow, he had entered Hell.

            The Pip-Boy pinged.

            >>Diamond City Radio Found

            >>Classical Music Radio Found

            Bellamy tuned to classical. He needed something to make this world bearable, and Beethoven obliged.

            He walked down the hill back to Sanctuary Hills.

            >>Sanctuary Discovered

            Bellamy immediately realized that this thing on his wrist was going to be annoying. He continued to walk down his old street. Codsworth was trimming the hedges in front of his ruined house.

            “Codsworth!” Bellamy jogged the rest of the way. “Codsworth.”

            “Mister Bellamy!” The robot said. His eyes, or at least the cameras he used as eyes, reached toward him intensely. “Mister Bellamy is that you? Oh my—you have no idea—“

            “It’s nice to see you too, Codsworth.” Trust wasn’t important. At that moment, Bellamy would’ve even been excited to see A. L. I. E.

            “Where,” Codsworth started. “Where is Shaun and the missus?”

            “They’re gone.” Bellamy said. “Shaun’s been kidnapped.”

            “That’s nonsense!” Codsworth shouted, excited. “You’re just hungry. Being 200 years late for dinner will do that to you!”

            “Two hundred years?” Bellamy looked around him. The Earth back home was doing great by comparison. This place was a desert. “Huh.”

            “Indeed, sir. Two hundred—“  
            “Yeah,” Bellamy interrupted. “Do you know where they might have taken Shaun? Did you see anyone come through here?”

            “Uh, well, no.” Codsworth said. “We can check the neighborhood, though. I’m sure they’ll turn up.”

            Bellamy cocked his head to the side. “They probably aren’t here, Codsworth. They’d have shot at us by now.”

            “Follow me, Mister Bellamy!” Codsworth ignored him, opting instead to search every house in the neighborhood. When they had combed over each house, Codsworth began to speak as if he were crying. “They aren’t here! I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

            “Yeah.” This was just a robot, Bellamy reminded himself. “Are there any people around who could tell me where to go?”

            The robot sniffled. “There’s people in Concord, but they always shoot me when I go down there.”

            “I wonder why.”

            Codsworth backed up. “Well it’s just down the road. Do tell me how much help they are.” He rushed off.

\-- -- --

            The Red Rocket stood just down the road from the ruins of Sanctuary. Surprisingly it wasn’t too destroyed. He walked up to it, wondering if there were any more bullets to be found. A great big German shepherd ran out to greet him, barking and growling the whole way.

            Bellamy had never interacted with a domesticated canine before. He backed away and almost ran, but the dog whimpered and trotted forward. Bellamy reached out tentatively, and the dog licked his fingers.

            The bond was complete. “How are you, boy?” Bellamy asked, surprised to find a coo almost emanating through his voice. The dog barked, and an “aww” escaped from Bellamy. How had he lost his composure so immediately? He was glad no one was around, especially Miller, who had been urging him to get some sort of animal for a while, much to his severe objections. Allergies had always been the excuse, but a phobia for anything that would feed on his corpse was the real motivator.

            “You want to come along?” He asked, formal despite the deep-seeded hope that this dog would say yes. Say yes? He critically thought. Dogs don’t speak, Bell. Yet somehow, the dog indicated in the most human fashion “yes.”

            “What do I call you?” He thought through a list of Greco-Roman gods—none of them seemed appropriate. Germanic lore, perhaps? Fitting in theory, but somehow out of place. Egyptian, Chinese, Hindu, Japanese—none of these worked. Even Islamic, Christian and Jewish imagery seemed right out. “Dogmeat.” The name came to him suddenly, bounding forth from long days spent hiding in the Ark’s archives, skipping school to do so. _A Boy and His Dog_ inspired him. The dog in that movie was named Dogmeat; why not the dog in his own story?

            “Okay, Dogmeat. Let’s go.”

\-- -- --

            Concord looked really different than from what the not-him Bellamy remembered. Someone had come in and boarded up most of the houses. He checked every open house, but no one was home anywhere. Despair began to descend upon his mood. He sat on a couch in one of the ruined houses, and he put his head in his hands. His fists clenched his hair, pulling until just the moment before his hair began to rip out. The pain felt good.

            Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Of course,” Bellamy muttered. He wanted to cry. This was overwhelming. Everything was overwhelming. Even the inspiring notes soaring out of his Pip-Boy couldn’t lift his spirits. When Gustav Holst couldn’t help him, Bellamy didn’t know who could. Normally Clarke would hold him when he got like this, but no one was there.

Thunder rumbled again. It was much closer. The roof above him was missing. “It’d be easy to just lay out on this divan.” Thunder bashed his words away, and the Pip-Boy began to beep at him. He looked down, and what he saw alarmed him.

>>+10 rads

He got up and began to run down the street. Somehow the sky had turned orange and green. It was the acid fog all over again! Lightning danced across the sky.

>>+10 rads

There had to be a house or a building he could run into. Somewhere still had to have a roof! That had to be a thing. He banged on several boarded up houses, hoping to find a loose nail or old boards. He needed to find shelter.

And that’s when he heard it—gunfire and the sound of some sort of drum. He ran to the gunfire. Maybe there would be shelter! He rounded a corner, and that’s when he saw them.

Men and women dressed in road leathers and fencing wire. They looked like a biker gang from hell. Each one of them was shooting at the balcony of the building down the street. Thunder rolled above them, temporarily drowning out the sound of their pistols. A red laser shot out from the balcony, vaporizing one of the raiders. Bellamy immediately wanted to hold that gun—not necessarily fire it, but just casually hold it. He liked that feeling.

What happened next was predictable. Bellamy knew it was coming, but he didn’t do anything to stop it. He could’ve prevented it by just turning down the volume, but he was so enthralled by the prospect of holding an actual laser gun that he forgot himself. The crescendo of Gustav Holst’s Mars Movement in the Planets Suite had arrived, and just as it always turned Bellamy’s head, it attracted the raiders’ attention.

“Hello.” Bellamy said right before a hail of bullets flew in his direction. “Sycophants!” He shouted as he tumbled behind a wrecked car, not realizing that he had meant to use the word “philistines.”

He checked to see how many rounds were in the cartridge. Twelve rounds for what he counted as six raiders. He began to hum along with the movement, and he stood from behind the car and began a slow, controlled walk down the street. He pinned a bead against each raider and fired a single shot each.

He missed each shot. The raiders were scared off though. Thunder crashed through his world.

>>+10 rads

He decided it was time to find shelter. Bellamy sprinted down the street to the building ahead of him. He heard a man pleading for help from the balcony.

The building turned out to be a museum. Not that Bellamy had seen many museums, but he had read about them, and he knew this one was particularly kitschy. “The Museum of Freedom,” he chuckled. “What a piece of—“ a bullet ricocheted next to his foot. In that moment, he realized that the man on the balcony probably wasn’t doing all that great of a job.

He ducked into a side room and pulled out the baton. No one shoots at Bellamy Blake, he told himself.

“Why don’t you just go ahead and die!” A raider shouted from above.

Bellamy came sprinting out of hiding, jumping and slamming the baton against the man’s skull. He heard a sharp crack, like snapping a plastic fork. Small bits of brain and blood flung against the floor. Something also snapped within Bellamy, and his vision clouded. Rage filled him, and the “Jupiter” began. As Holst’s lofty notes took flight from his Pip-Boy, Bellamy ended the lives of not less than six raiders, killing his way to the room that held five beleaguered souls.

“Man, I don’t know who you are, but your timing’s impeccable. Preston Garvey, Commonwealth Minutman.” A black man dressed in American colonial garb told him. Immediately Bellamy saw the man’s gun, a laser musket. This may have been the best moment of Bellamy’s admittedly terrible day. That man held Bellamy’s two favorite things:  history and guns big enough to hold with both hands.

“I’m Bellamy,” he said.

“Oh, you’re special, kid.” A crazy-looking woman spoke out from the corner. “I can see it!”

“Not now, Mama Murphy.” The man in front of him said. He turned his attention back to Bellamy. “I have a favor to ask—God, what are you listening to?”

“Classical Music Radio,” Bellamy said, looking down at his Pip-Boy. “Although between you and me, anything penned after the unification of Germany can’t really be called ‘classical.’”

“Yeah,” Preston said, clearly disliking Bellamy. “Well, we’d like your help. We’re pinned down by raiders out there.”

“Yeah, I saw.” Bellamy said. “What can I do about that?”

A mechanic-looking man turned around. “Actually, I got some ideas about that.”

\-- -- --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next week for the third and fourth episodes of Bethesda's Bellamy Best!


	3. A Kid Outta Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the long walk from Concord to Sanctuary, Bellamy begins to learn what happened in Quincy.

EPISODE III

A Kid Outta Time

\-- -- --

They call me the wanderer, yeah the wanderer

I roam around around around

\--Dion & The Belmonts, “The Wanderer”

\-- -- --

            The T-45 model of power armor was a hell of a machine. Bellamy remembered it from before the Vault, but to actually crawl in one thrilled him. It felt like raw power, but more importantly, it made him feel invincible. Since losing Octavia to the Skybox over three years before, the shadow of cruel, nihilistic inevitability had always slunk behind him. Staring out through suit’s the yellow-tinged HUD, that shadow at least took a step back.

            Raiders shouted immature taunts at the five in the museum. The invincibility of youth, drugs, and guns flowed through their goading. He assumed they felt like they were on top of this burned-out world.

But they weren’t aware of Bellamy. They didn’t know he had lost everyone he had known in the span of a few hours. They didn’t know that he himself was lost in an alien world. They didn’t know that he was scared and Clark and Octavia weren’t around to steady him.

The raiders below didn’t know what that did to Bellamy. Preston had taken Bellamy and pointed him in the direction of something to break, and the mechanic-looking man, Sturges, had given him the most impressive tool for destruction he’d ever used.

The hydraulic whirring coming from his legs and arms excited him. He crawled into the helicopter, a vertibird, and ripped the minigun from its mounting. He grinned—Edvard Grieg’s “In the Hall of the Mountain King” began to tiptoe its way out of the Pip-Boy.

He walked out onto the ledge as the bassoons and cellos led him by the hand through an imagined mountain hold, dark columns soaring to a jewel-besprinkled ceiling. It was ominous. Something scary existed in Grieg’s mountain. Bellamy paused. What if in this armor he was the mountain king? The tempo increased, and he forced the thought from his mind.

He stepped off of the ledge, allowing himself to fall down the face of the building. He must have looked like an angel of death plummeting from heaven. The hydraulics protested upon impact, and pebbles hopped away from him. He stood erect. There was a pause in the hail of bullets. A T-45 was a new variable, one the raiders likely hadn’t even considered. Bellamy gazed out along the thoroughfare. Each raider had some form of a pipe pistol.

The beautiful, reluctant groans of the cellos faded away, replaced by violins with no lack of pluck—hide and seek in the hall of the mountain king. He lifted the minigun, and the raiders leaped behind wrecked cars.

What was a tiptoe journey through the caverns became a pitter-patter jog and then a run. The mountain king was coming! The minigun spun up, somehow joining Grieg’s music as a new member of the orchestra. And at the crescendo every instrument, minigun included, ripped into a sprint.

Raiders began to fall. A car exploded, and then another threw shrapnel and flame into the street. Small pellets of metal and glass dinged against his power armor. Things became a blur of blood and fire as Bellamy mowed his way down the street.

And at the end of the road, at the end of the song, horror rose from the ground. “What the fuck!” Bellamy screamed. He stood before a demon clawing its way out of the sewer.

A raider stood next to it. The poor man began to run away, only to have the demon grab ahold of his leg and pull him back. He was a burly, bearded man, and from what Bellamy could see his face was more tattoo than skin. When the demon grabbed ahold of the man’s other leg, he let out a bloodcurdling scream. It lasted up until the moment the demon ripped his left leg—bone, tendon, and all—from his pelvis. Blood sprayed everywhere, coating the demon’s face and chest. The scream hung in the air long after the demon let the carcass fall to the ground.

There was exquisite silence as the demon shifted its gaze to Bellamy. “Grendel,” he said, remembering the Old English poem he had read Octavia when she was five. And then there was only the roar.

“Shit-shit-shit-shit—“ Bellamy turned and began to sprint away from the monster behind him. He couldn’t hear the music anymore over the sound of the groaning hydraulics. He became keenly aware of this armor’s age. His HUD showed the fusion core’s power draining fast. He was halfway to the museum when the demon’s claw collided with his back. He heard the talons etch into the metal as he fell forward.

He landed on the minigun, and the demon pulled him back. Bellamy dragged the minigun with him, and as he rolled over, he let it spin up. The demon knocked the gun aside, slamming it against the asphalt and jarring Bellamy’s hand. His finger left the trigger. And with the minigun spinning back into silence, the demon lifted his fist and brought it down against Bellamy’s chest. The power armor absorbed most of the shock, but the air was still knocked out of him. The demon hit again. Bellamy heard the metal groan and something crack. Some component of it had to have been high-strength plastic or ceramic. The assault grew in intensity the longer the armor held out.

Bellamy reached for the demon’s face and pressed his thumbs deep into an eye socket. The demon roared and lifted off. Bellamy reached for the minigun and spun it up again. It managed to fire before he could lose it again. A single, potent stream of rounds came barreling forth. Bits of bone and blood flew from the demon’s head, but the monster didn’t stop. It became enraged. Bellamy scooted away from the beast as his minigun dealt pain and blood. Finally the monster fell to its knees and eventually landed face first in a pool of its own blood and gore.

For a moment, he just lay there. The orange radiation storm blew around him. Lightning that he had ignored came back from the periphery. The killing had stopped in the middle of Copin’s “Nocturne in E Flat Major.” It was beautiful, contemplative.

Bellamy sat up and looked around. There weren’t just a handful of raiders strewn across the street; rather, there was a small army. He had been in this new world for only a day by his reckoning and how much death had he already dealt out? The minigun flew to a nearby car—he was disgusted at it and himself. He put the power armor in a decent position for him to crawl out, not caring about the radiation storm raging around him.

Ignoring the burning, he walked back to the museum. The pain was his penance for the murders he had just committed. Bellamy opened the door to find the five lost souls gathered in the corner next to a cashier’s station.

Preston stood over them all.

“Preston,” Bellamy began, his voice absent of the self-anger growing inside.

“I gotta hand it to you,” Preston said. “You handled yourself well out there. Fighting off a deathclaw is no easy work.”

“Is that what that thing’s called?” Bellamy said.

“You didn’t know that?” Preston cocked his head.

The old woman Preston had called Mama Murphy spoke up. “He’s not from around here, Preston.” She directed her attention at Bellamy. “You’ve come a long way to get here, kid, haven’t you?”  
            Bellamy wasn’t a fan of fortune telling. Those without much fortune rarely are. “Yeah, you could say that.”

“No,” she shook her head. “That’s too simple. You’re stuck outta time aren’t you? Out of space too.”

Bellamy raised an eyebrow. That was impressive. “Again,” he said, calculating. “You could say that.”

“And you’re looking for something, a boy,” she glanced down. “But you’re also looking for a way back. A way back to—to a forest.”

“A forest?” Preston asked. “There isn’t a forest around here for—for I don’t know how long.”

“You said something about a boy?” Bellamy’s concern showed through.

“I can see him, a baby boy,” Mama Murphy said airily. “It’s the sight.”

“What can you see?” Bellamy asked. He kneeled down to eye-level. “Please, I’m looking for my son.”

“I can see him, but I also see someone else,” she said. “A girl—they’re the same person. You can find them, kid, but you gotta know where to look.”

“Where do I look?” He felt stupid asking, but he needed any leads.

Mama Murphy suddenly collapsed into a slump. “I’m sorry, kid. It’s the sight—it kind of drains you. I’m gonna need more chems if I’m gonna use the sight for you again.”

“No, Mama Murphy,” Preston stepped in. “We talked about this. You don’t need that junk.”

“It got us here, huh Preston?” She said.

Another woman spoke up, “This is crazy. We’re probably going to our deaths, because a chem junkie told us some great new beginning would be there.”

“Sanctuary is there, Marcy.” Preston said. “I believe Mama Murphy.”

Bellamy’s head swam. How the hell could this woman see not only Shaun, but also Octavia? “I’m from there.” He said. He needed Mama Murphy’s visions—he had decided they were a good enough first step.

“Really?” Preston said, his face lighting up. “I know that you just saved us, but could you help us get there? Please? We could use the extra gun.”

“Sure,” Bellamy said. He didn’t know what else he was supposed to do.

\-- -- --

            They were an exhausted band of five. Their ranks held a 1950s greaser, a fortune teller, a minuteman, and a man who somehow had slipped through time and space. Bellamy felt the bards composing strange ballads of their journey from one burned-out village to the next. The name of their final destination was even Sanctuary—poetry in motion.

            “We started out in Quincy,” Sturges said, telling their story to Bellamy. “We knew there’d be a Gunner attack, so we signaled the Minutemen. Preston and a few others showed up to help. They really showed the Gunners who’s boss—at first at least.”

            “That’s when things got bad,” Jun Long said, melancholy riding on every word. Marcy reached out to hold her husband’s hand. He got choked up, and she angrily carried on for him. “Those sons of bitches attacked again, and the damn Minutemen couldn’t hold them off.”

            Preston was already in front of the group, and he sped up to put more distance between him and the rest of the group. Sturges took notice, “Marcy, they tried. There were just too many Gunners.”

            “Bullshit,” she said, her voice teetering on the edge of a shout. “Kyle’s gone, because those incompetent bastards couldn’t and wouldn’t do anything.”

            “Marcy,” Jun said, a sob forming. “Not now.”

            Sturges continued after a long pause. “Well, yeah, the Minutemen were really hit hard. The town couldn’t be evacuated. A lot of us died, and a lot of the Minutemen detachment died.

            “They started shooting us from the overpass, and that was it. The leader of that detachment—Hollis was his name—requested backup, but for some reason no one came. At that point, a man named Clint defected, and that was the end. They took the town. If it wasn’t for Preston, the 19 of us who got out wouldn’t have been able to. He saved us.”

            “I’m sorry you had to go through that,” Bellamy said after a long silence. He found himself thinking of Miller, Octavia and Clarke. His heart ached.

            “We roamed to Jamaica Plain, but they followed us and killed a few more,” Sturges continued. “By the time we got to Lexington, ghouls picked off all but eight. You saw what happened back there—three more of us died.”

            Bellamy remained silent. It seemed right. A cool wind blew down from the hills, rustling the dead branches above them. Preston was a solid 20 meters ahead of them. Bellamy wondered what he thought of their escape. He seemed distraught back at the museum, but after the battle he had calmed down almost to the point of stoicism. Bellamy decided to fall back to the rear. Someone had to make sure no one was following them.

            Strauss waltzed out of the Pip-Boy. Bellamy found solace in the music’s contrary attitude to the situation. He couldn’t bring himself to consider how the others felt about “The Blue Danube Waltz.” For now, he needed comfort and only Strauss obliged.

            They approached the statue leading into Sanctuary. The not-him Bellamy of this world had driven past it countless times, and he hadn’t once thought of it.

            “This is where it all started,” Preston said. He had stopped in front of the statue a while ago.

            “What started?” Sturges asked.

            “The first Minutemen began here over 500 years ago.” He was facing away from the group. Bellamy walked up to the statue. Long-weathered letters must have told the historical significance of this monument.

            “Wish I could read it,” Bellamy said.

            “Me too,” Preston responded. Bellamy looked over. Preston’s eyes were a deep well of amazement.

            They walked over the bridge into the old suburb. Bellamy realized that this was practically a small town in the world after. Jun began to cry when he saw the ruins of the houses.

            Sturges walked to a workshop in the carport across from Bellamy’s old house. “This will do fine. I think we can really make a go of it here.”

            Preston walked around the settlement. He met Codsworth and talked with the robot for a while. Bellamy sat on the corner and watched him.

            Mama Murphy grunted as she lowered herself to the curb, “It’s hard on these old bones to sit, kid.” She smiled as she looked over. “Listen, I don’t know exactly what the sight showed me, but I know how you reacted. This isn’t just about your baby boy—or girl or whatever—is it?”

            “It isn’t,” Bellamy kept staring at the not-him Bellamy’s house.

            “What is it about?”

            He contemplated not telling her. What harm would it do, though? “When you said I’m not from around here, you were right.” He sighed. “I’m from a place called Arkadia, but you wouldn’t be able to find it in this world.” He wanted to tell a truncated version of his story, but when he found himself at the Unity Day Masquerade Ball, he realized truncation wasn’t in the cards.

            “That’s heavy, kid.” Mama Murphy said after Bellamy finished. “Unbelievable, really.”

            Bellamy looked over—harm done, he guessed.

            “But,” she continued. “A lot of things are unbelievable. Things that happen. Things we don’t see or refuse to look at.” Preston was walking over to the two. Mama Murphy ended on one point:  “You’ll find Clarke and Octavia again, because Octavia is Shaun. That much I can tell. Clarke—Clarke might be someplace else, someplace a good deal stranger to you than even here. Find me some Mentats, and I may be able to see just a little bit more.”

            “Bellamy!” Preston shouted a few meters before getting to them. “I need your help again.”

            “Help with what?” What more could he possibly do?

            “Look around you, Bellamy. The world has gone all to hell, and the Minutemen were the only thing keeping the Commonwealth safe from the demons that plague it.” Preston looked away from Bellamy. “But the Minutemen are dead now. I’m the last one. I assumed command, and… Bellamy, I need help rebuilding the Minutemen.”

            “I really need to find my son, Preston,” Bellamy said. “I don’t even know if I can help.”

            “Fine,” Preston spat. He grew agitated, but immediately calmed. “Please. These people need you. The Commonwealth—I need you.”

            Bellamy, compelled by his long-dead mother, had no choice really. “Okay. What do I need to do?”

            “Really?” Preston said, excited. “It’s a bit of a chore, I’m afraid, but it’ll start the process of rebuilding not just the Minutemen but trust in the Commonwealth. There’s a settlement called Oberland Station that I heard needed some help with raiders. Go there, and see what you can offer them.”

            “Are you coming?” Bellamy needed the extra gun.

            “No, you have that dog. He seems capable.” Preston motioned to the settlers gathered around a small lantern. “They need me at the moment, so I have to stay—for now at least.”

            Bellamy left without any further objections. Dogmeat ran out ahead of him. Oberland Station—time to see what type of fetch quest Preston had sent him on.

\-- -- --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every Thursday, I will post two new episodes of season one of Bethesda's Bellamy Best.


	4. The Rebel General

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After killing a bunch of ghouls, Bellamy finds a new place in the Commonwealth; rather, Preston finds it for him.

EPISODE IV

The Rebel General

\-- -- --

Well, when there's work to do, send for the mighty one  
Yes, when there's work to do you better send for the mighty one  
Yes, he'll stay on the job until the job is done

\--Roy Brown, “Mighty Mighty Man”

\-- -- --

            “Valse Diable” was dark music best reserved for bad days. Bellamy hadn’t listened to it since he had been relegated to a janitorial position on the Ark. He had spent hours just staring at the floorboard that had housed Octavia, staring and listening to Masson’s dark vision of the world on repeat. Loudly. His neighbors had banged on the walls, trying desperately to get him to turn it down. He had never told anyone since how very badly he wanted to kill on that day. It was his first time feeling that desire, revenge. He had wanted to break into the Skybox and save Octavia, but more importantly he had wanted to kill.

            Angry violins came rushing like shadows out from the Pip-Boy to dance around him. Dogmeat had run far ahead, sensing in Bellamy a darkness that he wanted to avoid.

            Bellamy brooded over Concord. How many raiders was it? Ten? Fourteen? He had gotten his wish. He had gotten it in spades.

            The Commonwealth, as Preston had called it, was huge. He had been walking for hours before he finally found the railway that would take him to Oberland Station. Parked cars, long since abandoned or burned out, littered the country roads and highways he had wandered down. Preston hadn’t given him clear directions, and his Pip-Boy wasn’t a whole lot of help for a Bellamy Blake who, more and more, was disconnecting from the not-him of this world. He wondered what would happen to that Bellamy Blake if, and hopefully when, he left for Arkadia.

            Dogmeat barked. He found something twenty yards ahead in a wreck of old shipping containers strewn about the railway. As Bellamy walked closer, he felt a distinct sense that he was being watched. Unnerved, he tried to call Dogmeat back to him, but the dog just stood there.

            “Valse Diable” stopped and transitioned to something by Chopin. Bellamy couldn’t tell what it was. He tried to place the notes as he crept closer to the dog. He almost had it when he heard the branch crack about ten feet behind him.

            He turned to see a zombie standing there, breathing heavily, aggressively. Bellamy reached for his gun, and the creature issued a sustained scream. It was guttural, almost a scratchy hiss. Bellamy jumped. Fear clouded his vision, and he raised the gun.

            A single round unloaded into the creature’s chest. It began to sprint to Bellamy. He screamed and unloaded another round, this time into the creature’s heart. It didn’t stop. It couldn’t stop. The thing jumped into the air just three feet in front of him, and Bellamy fired a round into the thing’s skull. Bits of rotten-smelling brain matter flew from the base of its skull. A scream caught in Bellamy’s throat, pushed aside as his breath was knocked out of him from the weight of this zombie thing slamming against him. Bellamy’s head almost hit the track’s steel rail.

            He rolled the corpse off of him, wanting to just lay there for a few minutes. Another scream echoed through the maze of steel crates behind him. He rolled onto his stomach. Another scream issued forth, followed by several more. That’s when the heard the pitter-patter sprinting coming from the crates. He jumped to his feet and reloaded his gun. He could hear at least five of those things.

            Dogmeat began viciously barking.

            “Go get ‘em!” Bellamy shouted, realizing as he said it how provincial it sounded. The dog sprinted into the maze. He heard barking and more screaming.

            The first two found their way into Bellamy’s field of view. He put them down with a shot each to the skull. Dogmeat squealed out in pain, and Bellamy ran into the maze to rescue him.

            He found three of the zombies standing perfectly still around an unconscious Dogmeat. They were each panting. He pulled a bead on the largest one’s head. Three bullets later, and he was almost certain he and his dog were alone again.

            Bellamy ran over to Dogmeat. He was pretty beat up. Tears began to fill his eyes. “No, not you. Not you—not you—not you.” He begged.

            Looking around, Bellamy saw some sort of syringe sticking out from one of the zombie’s pockets. He scurried over to grab it. “Stimpack?” He said, wondering what this would do. Dogmeat began gargling with each breath. If Clarke were here, he was sure she’d tell him that the dog’s lungs were beginning to fill with blood. He rushed over and stabbed the syringe into the dog’s side. It hissed as it punched whatever was in this thing into his system, and Dogmeat awoke, startled.

            The wounds began to close up, and Bellamy again found himself confused by this strange world. Dogmeat licked his cheek. It was the first time a dog had ever done that, and he smiled and ran his fingers deep into the dog’s furry collar.

            They continued down the tracks until they reached it. Oberland Station was a single, wooden tower and a farm sitting next to it. Dawn crested above the hills, throwing light through the skeleton trees. Two women were milling about the small garden.

            “Not a step further!” One of them pulled a shotgun from its resting place against the chain-link fence. “Who the hell are you?”

            “I’m with the Minutemen,” Bellamy said, putting his hand on his pistol all the same. “I’m here to help.”

            “The Minutemen?” The other woman came forward. “Minutemen don’t exist anymore. Not since Quincy.”

            “Well, we’re coming back,” he smiled. “Listen, Preston just told me you guys asked for help.”

            “Preston,” the one holding the shotgun said. “Preston Garvey?”

            “Yes.”

            “You tell that sonofabitch Preston we don’t need help from the likes of him,” she cocked the shotgun. “You can leave.”

            “Billie, come on,” the other woman said calmly. “You can’t seriously still be mad at him.”

            “Mad’s one word for it.”

            “Well, he didn’t know about you.”

            “And that makes it better?”

            “Guys,” Bellamy interrupted. “I’m just here to help out with whatever it is…”

            “Billie.” The other woman said sternly. “Put down the gun and tell the nice man what he needs to do.”

            She grunted, but she complied. “We got some ghouls roaming around dangerously close to us. Here,” she reached for Bellamy’s wrist. He instinctively drew back. “I’ll mark it on your map.”

            He looked down. “And that’s close to here?”

            She looked up at him and smiled. “Why sure it is.”

\-- -- --

            “Preston!” Bellamy roared as he walked into Sanctuary. “Preston Garvey!”

            The Minuteman strolled out of a wrecked house, his laser musket pointed casually toward the ground. Bellamy had to tell himself that now was not the time to enjoy the musket’s aesthetic. He was furious.

            “What’s wrong, Bellamy?” Preston asked, entirely nonplussed by Bellamy’s sudden rage.

            “Do you realize what exactly you sent me into?” He yelled. The other settlers were beginning to gather down the street. “First I had to walk all the way to Oberland Station—which, by the way, is fucking far—where I got to meet an absolute gem of a woman and her sister. Apparently, Preston, apparently—and you’ll really love this—apparently she knew you. Billie? You remember Billie? Well she remembers you, and she almost shot me! Ass.”

            “Bellamy, sir, we should continue this discussion inside one of these old houses.” Preston said, motioning with his musket to Bellamy’s—the not-him Bellamy—old house.

            He became enraged. “Don’t you dare invite me into my own home!” Mama Murphy shook her head and began to walk away from the crowd.

            “Your own—“ Preston shook his head. “Bellamy come inside, please.”

            Tears began to flood his eyes, and he didn’t know why. He let himself sit on the curb, and he went to put his head in his hands. When he saw his palms were smeared with black, dry blood, he began to weep. The other settlers were staring now, more than curious. Marcy held Jun as the poor man started to cry as well. Preston shooed the onlookers away, and he went over to Bellamy.

            “Sir,” Preston said, still standing over him.

            “Please don’t call me that,” Bellamy whimpered. “Every time someone calls me that, people die"

            “Bellamy—do you go by Bell for short?”

            “That’s not for you.” He said softly.

            “Bellamy,” Preston sat down beside him. “You can’t cry out here.” Bellamy threw a hard glare. Then, he looked down. Preston continued, “Those people over there, they need a leader.”

            “Not right now, Preston,” Bellamy could see where this was going, where these conversations always went. “I can’t.”  
            “You have to,” Preston put a hand on his shoulder. “You’re the only one left who can.”

            “They have you.”

            “Not always,” Preston said softly. “I was going to ask if you wanted to join the Minutemen.”

            “What?”

            A smile pulled its way across Preston’s face. “Do you want to join the Minutemen?”

            Bellamy sighed. “I’m looking for my son, Preston. And a way back home. I don’t think—“

            “The Minutemen can help,” Preston said, almost childlike. “The Minutemen can help do anything. We just have to get back on our feet.”

            Bellamy looked up. The tears were already dry against his cheeks. Mama Murphy was walking over. “Kid,” she said hoarsely. “You gotta help him out. You gotta help us all out.”

            “But Shaun.”

            She laughed. “You won’t get what you want if you don’t help others first. Shaun is out there. He’s not going anywhere too far. Home is out there, too. You don’t help out Preston, you don’t get either of those things. Easy as that.”

            “I’m not exactly the person people come to for help, Mama Murphy,” he said. Preston sat quietly, confused as to what the two were talking about.

            “Well, kid, it depends on who you ask. The Mountain Men say one thing. The Sky People say another.”

            “Mama Murphy,” Preston interjected. “Have you been taking Buffout again?”

            “Hush.” Bellamy commanded. Then, “Mama Murphy, what happens if I help the Minutemen?”

            Exhaustion overtook her. “Ah, kid, that’s—that’s a hard question. The Sight, it just told me you need to. Some Jet would help get more answers.”

            Bellamy looked at Preston. “She said I have to, so I’m in.”

            Preston’s face lit up. “Really? Oh my—this is great. Well,” he stood up, “what do we do now, General?”

            “What?” Bellamy was taken aback.

            “The commander of the Minutemen has always held the rank of General.”

            “Woah, woah, woah,” Bellamy threw up his hands. “No one ever said anything about being general.”

            “General, look around. We started off with twenty-five people when we escaped from Quincy. Now we’re just five, and that’s—that’s my fault. I’ve never really been cut out for leadership.”

            Mama Murphy began to nod her head. Bellamy seemed to have no choice. Just a few days ago, he was in a beautiful version of America—a thing that should not have been.

            “Okay, Preston,” he conceded. “I’ll be your general. General Blake,” he chuckled. “It’ll be just like the drop ship all over again.” That walk down memory lane saddened him. He remembered Octavia and how she would chase after the luminous butterflies. She loved him more then. His thoughts drifted to Clarke.

            “What’s your first order, General?” Preston asked.

            “Well,” Bellamy had no orders. He didn’t know anything about this place he found himself in. “What do you suggest, Preston.”

            “More settlements need to join our cause,” he took a step away, looking down the street. “It’ll be a long road, but eventually we’ll build our ranks again.”

            “What’ll that entail?”

            “More of what you just did,” Preston turned.

            “Yeah, no more of that. That was awful.”

            “General, we are the only ones left. We need more soldiers.”

            “No, Preston. We need a big mission,” Bellamy went over to him. “You said people don’t support the Minutemen anymore. Let’s give them a reason to support us. Let’s show them that we can move heaven and earth out of the way—that we can clear a path for them—show them a better way.” It’s what Clarke would’ve suggested.

            “What could we possibly do?” Preston asked.

            “As my lieutenant, that’s your place to find out.” Bellamy smiled. “You’re coming with me until we find our next big mission, though. I need a guide, and, who knows, maybe you’ll find our mission.” Dogmeat barked. “You’re coming too, big guy.”

            “As you command, General. We should really sleep first, though. You look exhausted.”

            The two went into Bellamy’s old house. Two cots were laying out on the floor. Bellamy pulled them further apart. He wanted as much distance from other people as possible. When he woke up, he woke up from violent nightmares. He chuckled to himself, wondering what Miller would’ve thought about him having another lieutenant, about him sleeping just a few feet away from the other lieutenant. That kid did have a hell of a crush on him when Bellamy took command at the drop ship.

            He fell asleep thinking about Arkadia, about Clarke, about Miller, about Octavia. He was happily remembering, something that rarely happened anymore.

\-- -- --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tune in next Thursday for episodes five and six of season one of Bethesda's Bellamy Best. Bellamy and Preston will go in search of a new mission--one far different from the main quest lines of Fallout 4.


	5. Civilization

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellamy reveals to Preston that life on the Ark wasn't great for everyone, especially for mixed-race kids.
> 
> This chapter provides a slight examination into how Bellamy Blake's life as a person of color would've affected him over the years. It also provides a slight critique of certain philosophies in social justice, the most prominent being focusing on cosmetic stuff when you should probably do something about the terrifyingly oppressive stuff. Of course, making the world a better place isn't always a zero-sum game. That will be looked at later.
> 
> For now, allow me to take you on the wild ride that is Bellamy Blake Crawling Out Through The Fallout.

EPISODE V

Civilization

\-- -- --

So bongo, bongo, bongo I don't want to leave the Congo

Oh no no no no no

Bingle, bangle, bungle I'm so happy in the jungle I refuse to go

Don't want no bright lights, false teeth, doorbells, landlords

I make it clear

\--Danny Kane and the Andrews Sisters, “Civilization”

\-- -- --

            “Can we please listen to something else, General?” Preston begged. They had been wandering through the north side of the Commonwealth for about a week, and Preston had finally had enough.

            “Why? This is a classic Scarlatti.” Bellamy felt genuinely confused. “Listen to the complexity of the melody. Hear that?” A strong hand pushed ivory notes from his Pip-Boy. “Exquisite, like waves lapping against the shores of an expansive lake.”

            “Okay, but we’ve heard that song fifteen times today.” Preston probably wouldn’t have gotten away with saying this to another general, but he was done.

            “This is the first time we’ve heard any _piece_ by Scarlatti,” Bellamy said.

            “Just, please,” Preston begged, his words prostrate, pleading. “Please can we just please listen to literally anything else, please. I’d rather listen to a Geiger counter.”

            “Well,” Bellamy felt like reprimanding him for disorderly behavior, but even in his frustration he could see that he had almost no authority over the man. “I guess we can tune in to Diamond City Radio, despite how lowbrow it is.”

            “Oh thank God,” Preston threw his head to the sky. “Thank you, God.”

            Bellamy rolled his eyes. He slowly, reluctantly flipped his way to Diamond City Radio, and what he heard horrified him. “What is this?”

            “Oh that’s ‘Civilization’ by Danny Kane and the Andrews Sisters. It’s one of my favorites.” Preston began to sing along with it. “So bongo, bongo, bongo I don’t want to leave the Congo, oh no, no, no, no! Bingle, bangle, bungle I’m so happy in the jungle I refuse to go!”

            “Preston, stop!” Bellamy couldn’t even begin to sort out his emotions. “This is—this is—what is this?”

            “It’s ‘Civilization.’ I just told you.”

            “No, I mean, how can you listen to this?” Bellamy stared at his Pip-Boy. “This is so problematic. I mean, I understand how not okay it is that I only listen to white composers from Enlightenment-era Europe. I could easily listen to Christopher Tin or, uh, others, but at least my music isn’t blatantly racist!”

            “General, it’s just a song,” Preston said, clearly having no idea how much this upset his commander.

            “I mean, it’s also problematic that my favorite artworks from Mount Weather tended to be Italian Renaissance, but, again, I’m not saying ‘bingle, bangle, bungle!’”

            “General,” Preston said. “We don’t have to listen to this if you don’t want to.”

            “No,” Bellamy said. “No, I think we _need_ to listen to this.”

            Travis Miles’ voice came softly over the radio. “Coming to you from the jewel green—uh, I mean—the green—uh, I mean—the, uh, great green jewel of the Commonwealth, it’s Diamond City Radio!” He trailed off into a fit of silent self-criticism. “So, uh, that was ‘Civilization’ by, uh, Danny Kane and the Andrews Sisters. It sure sounds like—It definitely seems, uh, well, civilization didn’t quite seem like their, uh, the place they wanted to be.”

            “This man,” Bellamy’s voice darkened. He knew men like this, men who twisted the world to their liking. “This man must be taught a lesson.”

            “Travis? He’s harmless.”

            “He’s broadcasting this blatant racism all across the Commonwealth! That doesn’t seem harmless to me, Preston. No, we are going. Just, where is Diamond City?”

            “General, there’s about five settlements who need our help,” Preston pressed the matter. “Some of them are in real trouble. One of them has a clan of super mutants attacking regularly.”

            “This will also help them, Preston.” Bellamy was sure of it.

            Preston sighed. “Diamond City is this way.”

\-- -- --

            Diamond City. Bellamy appreciated the wordplay involved in its name. The settlement spread out over the infield and outfield of an old baseball stadium. He rarely watched baseball while on the Ark, but when he did he could admire the strategy involved.

            Preston, Bellamy and Dogmeat walked by a mild kerfuffle at the entrance of the stadium.

            “Hey, you!” A reporter-looking woman said. “What do you think about freedom of the press, huh?”

            Bellamy would’ve sized up the situation, but his response was instinctive and self-assured. “The freedom of the press is vital to any democratic society.”

            “Well said,” Preston patted him on the back, prompting a sideways glance from his commander.

            “Ha! See McDonough, even this guy knows what Diamond City needs, and what we need is answers. Why did you order security to just ignore every kidnapping that goes on here?”

            “Piper, your allegations about the Institute replacing people with synths is just ridiculous,” the mayor blustered. “And it’s doing nothing but causing rampant paranoia. Now, I oughtta lock you up for sedition or slander.”

            “The people do have a right to have their leaders questioned,” Bellamy interrupted. “Democracy only works when the people not only trust their leaders, but when they can keep their leaders in check. Peaceful conflict played out in letters is what society needs in order to better itself. Even the ancients knew that a tyrant only becomes a tyrant through the consent of the people. Journalism is really the best way to keep tyrants from power without having to revert to more violent methods.”

            “Uh, General, maybe a history lesson isn’t—“

            “And for that matter,” Bellamy continued, wrapped in the comfort of his own voice. “I posit that many governmental problems begin with the withholding of information. Where I’m from, almost three hundred people died because a government committee said ‘to hell with the rights of the governed.’” Bellamy became sullen. “I also played a role in that, but even I know that whole situation could’ve been avoided.”

            Mayor McDonough was stunned. There were few wandering political scientists in the Commonwealth. Even the reporter, Piper, was shocked to see someone have that much invested in the pursuit of political knowledge.

            “Well,” the mayor started but, after consideration, declined to finish.

            “Yup,” Preston said. “General, Travis is this way.” Preston grabbed Bellamy’s arm and pulled him into the stadium.

            Diamond City, the great, green jewel of the Commonwealth, reminded Bellamy of an old movie he had once watched on the Ark—he couldn’t quite remember the title, though.

\-- -- --

Octavia had begged for some form of entertainment, and she had refused almost all of Bellamy’s suggestions:  Ben-Hur, Cleopatra, Julius Caesar and even Star Wars Episode III. Finally, he had suggested an old, Australian classic.

            “Mom said this was my dad’s favorite movie,” he had told her. “It reminded him of his father, and it reminded his father of home.”

            “Mad Max?” She had sounded skeptical.

            “I know. It sounds like a bad movie, but this spawned one of the greatest franchises of the 20th and 21st centuries!”

\-- -- --

            “This looks kind of like Barter Town,” Bellamy told Preston.

            “The what?” Preston eyed him cautiously. “General, I hate to sound like a broken record, but are you okay?”

            “Yeah. Where’s Travis?” He would have to hold off processing the fact that Mad Max had never existed in this world.

            They walked to the outfield, where Bellamy saw the saddest radio shack. Even during his time as dad of the drop ship, Raven had cobbled together something more respectable than this.

            “Follow my lead,” his voice grew dark.

            “Yes, sir.” Preston said almost sarcastically. Bellamy glanced back, but chose to, once again, disregard his subordinate’s attitude. He found himself wishing that Miller were with him. Having a moody, gay teenager pine after him was much better than having someone his age disagreeing with his decisions.

            Bellamy threw open the door to Travis Miles’ home and place of business.

\-- -- --

            Travis Miles began each morning with silent contemplation and a single solitary tear. Depending on the weather or his sinuses or how much he had to drink the night before or if Scarlett had talked to him within the past 24 hours, he would either lie in bed silently for 20 or 30 minutes or he would cry in bed for 20 or 30 minutes.

            He’d then turn his equipment off of the night recording and go on the radio for his usual 13 hour shift. Just him and the radio for 13 hours. On some level it was nice. No one was there to talk back at him or look at him or be around him. Travis liked being alone, because there would be only one person in the room judging him.

            Sometimes, though, he’d think about all the people who at any given moment would tune in to his radio station. He’d become so terrified that his life-long stutter would reach an almost legendary level of difficulty. Somewhere—probably everywhere, he’d think—someone definitely hated his DJ’ing, his presentation, his voice. He even suspected his best friend, Vadim, didn’t even really like him.

            Around noon, he’d go get a noodle bowl and then hide in his trailer again.

            The day would continue much in the same way—sadness, anxiety, comfort, loneliness—until it was time to go off the air for the evening. He’d go to the Dugout Inn, drink a few drinks, realize a depressant probably wasn’t great for his depression, and then genuinely hate himself.

            On this particular day Travis was done introducing “The Wanderer” when the door to his trailer flew open. The harsh sunlight of the apocalypse cut through the dimly lit cabin.

            Travis screamed in fear, “Who are you?”

            “Hey Travis,” Preston said.

            “So you’re Miles, huh?” Bellamy cut his companion off. “Of course you are.”

            “Yeah, I—uh—I’m he—me—Travis. I’m, uh, I, uh, I-I-I-I,” he began to seriously stutter. He pulled his hands over the bottom of his face. “Please, don’t hurt me.”

            “Hurt?” Bellamy laughed. Then, he roared. “You want to talk about hurt?” He knocked a charisma bobble head off a nearby shelf. It landed quite dully against the floor.

            “Bellamy, stop!” Preston yelled. He had drawn his face into pained disgust. “You’re the one hurting people right now.”

            “Not now, Preston.” He turned back to Travis. “Miles,” he squatted down so he’d be eye-level. “Can I call you Travis?”

            “Y-y-y-y-y…”

            “Okay, Travis.” Bellamy smiled. “You’re going to stop playing ‘Civilization.’ Got it?”

            “B-b-b-ut it’s m-my most p-p-popular song.”

            “I don’t give!” Bellamy roared, suddenly calming down. “A flying fuck, Travis.”

            “General.”  
            “Quiet!” He roared. Then, sweet as honey, “you’re hurting people by playing that song. You understand?”

            “No.” Travis quivered.

            “You people never do.”

            “My people?” Travis looked at Preston who merely shrugged.

            “Yes! God, this is just like on the Ark. ‘This is the end of the world, Bell. It doesn’t matter if you’re white or black or yellow or purple.’ Well it ended up mattering for me.”

            “I d-d-d-d-don’t understand.” Travis continued to quiver uncontrollably.

            “You wouldn’t,” Bellamy went over to the bobble head on the floor. He picked it up and examined it. “Charisma.” He smiled and then placed the statuette back on its appointed ledge. Bellamy realized that, for the nth time in this world, he had begun to cry. Just a tear, but it was always just a tear at first.

            Preston reached out to his commander. “General, what the hell are we doing here?”

            Bellamy sighed.

\-- -- --

            Factory Station was always dirty, no matter how hard the denizens of the station worked to keep it clean.

            A young Bellamy Blake was on his way back from the station’s library when a group of five boys and three girls stopped him. They were all white.

            “My mom says your dad walked out on your mom,” one of the girls said to him. They were all taller than him.

            “My mom said your mom’s a whore,” a boy said, smiling.

            Bellamy clenched his fist, but he knew better than to fight. Octavia needed him there, not in the Sky Box.

            “My dad says your mom hasn’t had a real man, yet,” the tallest boy whispered into Bellamy’s ear. Years later, Bellamy would shoot that boy, then a man, in the chest during the Allie incident. “He says that your mom can only get Asians.”

            “Hey now,” another girl said. “Bellamy’s basically white. Maybe his dad wasn’t really all that Asian.”

\-- -- --

            “I wanted to kill them, Preston.” They were sitting on the stoop outside of Travis’ radio shack. Bellamy had tears streaming down his face. He hadn’t told anyone, not even Clarke, that story. “I never even knew my dad. I only ever knew about 2,000 people growing up, and I never even met him.”

            “That place, Factory Station, it sounds awful.”

            “It wasn’t great.”

            “So that’s why you were so upset about that song?” Preston asked.

            “Kind of,” Bellamy mulled over the question. “I’m half white, which meant that half of the time people would just ignore my race. Even on the Ark that was an advantage. But I’m also half Filipino.”

            “Filipino?”  
            “It’s not spelled the way you’d think,” Bellamy laughed between choked words. “Basically it means that people will treat me like shit two different ways. There were some who didn’t even want me dating Clarke, because she had Finn and then Lexa. Nathan—maybe one of my best friends from before—he and I had a theory about that. He’s black, and no one on Farm Station wanted him dating Bryan, who’s white. You get where I’m going, right? It was either that or people would say I got away with all the horrible things I did because I’m white.” Bellamy smiled, and very suddenly some ounce of pride came into his eyes. “My grandfather was Filipino-Australian. Apparently, he was one of the first Australian people of color to go into space.”

            “That’s exciting, but that doesn’t make sense.” Preston furrowed his brow. “Only America, China and Russia went into space, if I remember my history correctly.”

            “Your history is correct,” Bellamy said. “But it’s only correct for _your_ world.”

            “I don’t understand.”

            “I’m not from around here, Preston,” Bellamy motioned around. “This—this isn’t the world I left behind. In my world, the bombs dropped in 2052, and that’s only one of a countless number of differences.”

            Bellamy explained the events over the past few days to the best of his ability. He tried to convey things that he barely understood himself, and Preston listened silently. He was confused and then concerned. It was only after Bellamy told him what Mama Murphy said that Preston accepted everything Bellamy said.

            “So you’re looking for Shaun to find a way back home?” Preston said. “Well, then we should find Shaun. But you gotta help me build up the Minutemen first. We’ll need a replacement for you.”

            “I can accept that.” Bellamy wiped his cheeks dry. “We should probably apologize to Travis, shouldn’t we?”

            “I had nothing to do with that,” Preston said somberly. “I don’t apologize for other people, even if they are my superior.”

            “Fair enough.”

\-- -- --

            Travis was terrified, but there was nothing he could do. This strange man had come back and picked him up in a big, bear hug. He hadn’t measured Bellamy’s height before, but he certainly now realized that Bellamy was incredibly tall. People in the Commonwealth rarely got above 5 foot 10 inches, and this man stood around 6 foot 2.

            “I-i-i-i-it’s okay,” Travis said, patting Bellamy on the back. “I won’t play that song anymore.”

            “No,” Bellamy put him back down. “Keep playing it. It means something different here, and I was really just mad at other people.”

            “I don’t—uh—I don’t understand.”

            “Again,” Bellamy pressed on. “I’m really sorry about coming in here. I hope you can forgive me. Is there anything I can do for you, buddy.”

            Travis cringed at this man calling him his buddy, but he let it happen anyway. He actually did have something Bellamy could do to make it up to him. “Is Preston still out there?”

            “Yeah. Preston! Travis wants you!” Bellamy shouted through the door.

            “Okay,” Travis waited until his friend came into the trailer. “I—uh—I h-have some-thing to do—to give you—to have you do.”

            “What is it, buddy?” Bellamy asked.

            “P-p-please d-don’t call me that. And have—uh—have you ever been to the, uh, the Dugout Inn?”

\-- -- --

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to production difficulties, I will be posting the companion episode, episode six, sometime this weekend. For now, here's a preview of episode six, The Garbage Son:
> 
> Drums, deep, thunderous drums rolled far away in the basement of the Beantown Brewery. They were coming—hordes of them with their pipe pistols and pool cues and tire irons. Last time, the raiders didn’t stand a chance. But last time, Bellamy was wearing power armor, and he suspected that he got quite the assist from the Deathclaw. They were dead. After all this time, they were going to die. He looked around, seeing yet not seeing the people around him. They were specters on the edge of his breaking mind.
> 
> “They have taken the bridge and the second hall,” Bellamy said. He was rocking back and forth violently, hands shaking and toes curled up painfully in the rough woolen socks and constricting leather boots. Tears were streaming down his face.
> 
> “What the fuck is he talking about?” The man in the corner of the room asked. John Murphy stood shorter than Bellamy, taller than Preston, and in this world his name was Raider Scum.


	6. Orlando--Not a chapter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story is going on a bit of a hiatus.
> 
> I know this isn't a fanfic post, but, please, in the wake of Orlando I dare you to take this down. I am apologizing to the handful of readers I've garnered, and I'm trying to offer some sort of something to those who are scared and hurt. I am a 21-year-old gay man who has been reminded, yet again, of his own mortality.

Hello all,

I promised the next episode of Bellamy Crawling Out Through The Fallout would come out this weekend. In 19 minutes (from when I'm writing this) this weekend will have come and gone. I cannot deliver on my promise of a next episode for at least a few more days.

I am a gay man living in the Midwest. I also have an at times potentially deadly disability and a mood disorder that, generally, is under control. I live my life nowadays with the knowledge that my body and my mind don't necessarily like me--my body even going so far as to try and kill me dead with seizures on at least three occasions. 

I, like so many members of the queer community, have been reminded that there are other forces in this world that wish to do us harm. I wish I could say that I cannot write because I stand in mourning with those in Orlando and around the globe. I wish I could, but I can't. No, I can't write, because I'm a disabled, crazy, gay kid in the Midwest, and I have been reminded of my mortality yet again. 

This world hurts us in many ways. To the queer members of my audience, I am sorry for how it feels. We are hurt seemingly from the day we are born until the day we die, living only with the hope that it will get better. Thing is, it generally does. We recover. We find friends and family that will protect us, and eventually we become the friends and family that protect one another. This will hurt for a long while. It will scare us for a long while. The memories of those we've lost will break our hearts for a long while. But we will be strong, free and, one day, happy again.

To the straight members of my audience. This world hurts us queer individuals in many ways. I would ask you to be kind to us, but I need some form of agency and I'm done begging. Be kind to us. Shield your friends--shield us--and remember that today has proven what hate can do. The responsibility to stop the rancor and the hate and the distrust and the disgust and the loathing and the fear is yours. See that you own up to it.

Again, I apologize for the lack of another episode. One will come out soon.

Until then stay safe, and remember that even though there is pain and evil in the world, there is also mirth and good.

May we meet again,  
Untrie

**Author's Note:**

> I will publish two episodes every week on Thursdays until Season One of Bethesda's Bellamy Best is over.


End file.
